


basileuousa

by Athenova



Series: Beyond the Aegean [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Background Relationships, Balkan OCs, Croatia is a sweetheart, Cyprus is the narrator, Gen, GreSerb rights, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical Hetalia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Medieval History, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Homophobia, Very loosely based on historical events, greece is the byzantine empire, greece is traumatized, i hate the canon so i made my own, minor Ancient Greece/Rome, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26718871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenova/pseuds/Athenova
Summary: While cleaning the attic to avoid a day ruined by their brothers' arguing, Iakovos and Hasan stumble upon a brilliant red diary, titled simply "Basileuousa". As curiosity gets the best of them, the personifications of Cyprus start delving upon the glorious past of Heracles. The tears and blood he shed, the dark secrets he kept and promises he broke, all done within the magnificent Basileuousa, and all hidden in the diary of his.[HIATUS UNTIL HE WHO DEFIES THE KINGS IS OVER]
Relationships: Bulgaria/Byzantine Empire (Hetalia), Byzantine Empire/Serbia
Series: Beyond the Aegean [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1944514
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue -- Προλογος

**Author's Note:**

> My first post on AO3, and for Hetalia nonetheless. I sort of always wanted to do this, and I seriously dislike Greece's portrayal in the anime, so I wanted to do something self-indulgent.  
> Although relationships aren't the focus on this series, you will be able to tell that I'm a diehard Gre/Serb shipper.
> 
> Sorry for grammar mistakes! English isn't my first language!

Screams, insults, and deafening sounds of horns and of crashing waves filled the silence of the sky.

The sight of heavily armored ships, one overrun by very familiar black and gold uniforms, and the other, filled to the brim as well, with similarly familiar navy blue and gold sailor uniforms, disturbed the once peaceful beach.

Drunken sailors and despaired admirals, from both sides, mindlessly screamed at the opposing side, for reasons they did not understand and didn’t care about.

Iakovos watched helplessly by his balcony, a sad look blackening his eyes. Leaning against the wall, coffee mug resting lifelessly upon the plastic table, his hopes for a quiet, uneventful morning with the little brother over, gone.

Sadik and Hercules were fighting again. Iakovos cannot remember the last time these two were at friendly terms. It seemed like a dream-- it seemed like yesterday when Sadik and Hercules were enjoying a cold drink by the beautiful beaches that blessed their lands, talking about philosophy and history, stories and lore from ancient times.

These two were **so** alike, his brother was so alike to Sadik, it’s almost uncanny, despite his protests. Why couldn’t they just all get along already? Why do they have to tarnish their own reputations, drag innocent people into their own dirty business, just to prove points in this useless rivalry.

An exasperated groan escaped his lips, grabbing the attention of the young nation sitting nearby, whose presence Iakovos hadn’t felt before. Was Hasan always there? Or was he that distracted? Iakovos couldn’t tell. He didn’t care any longer.

Hasan, sitting opposite to his brother, leaning against the black balcony railings, was distracted with his own thoughts, in his own little world. Recently things have been hectic on the Mediterranean, and Hasan wasn’t oblivious to it.

He’d see the glint in Sadik’s eyes, hear the whispers carried by the winds about a possible upcoming war. Hostile words, like daggers, aimed to injure, not the body, but morale; This was no longer just a disagreement between countries. It was something bigger, something terrible, something _completely_ beyond his knowledge. Hasan couldn’t understand it, let alone explain it, nor could he expect Iakovos to be able to explain it either.

The sigh from Iakovos pulled Hasan from the world of his thoughts. Perhaps he could ease the tension a bit, start a conversation. For what though? Only one subject crossed his mind.

“So, they’re fighting again?” Hasan broke the silence, eyes fixated upon the war ships blocking the lovely sight of the sea.

“Yeah," Iakovos replied curtly, fingers curled around his coffee mug, absent-mindedly rubbing it, as if he was begging for more coffee to fill it. "You know, like every other day."

Hasan turned around, brown eyes piercing through Iakovos' soul with an indifferent glare, but a hidden playfulness wavered deep inside.

“Instead of watching them fight, we could always do something different.”

“Like what?” Iakovos’ response left out a laugh he didn’t know he held back. 

“I don’t know. You said you wanted to clean the attic today, or something like that. Maybe we can get this done with and distract ourselves from this shouting.” Hasan shrugged.

Iakovos sighed, rising from his seat, picking up his mug in the process. “I suppose you’re right… It’s not like we have anything better to do.”

“I guess." Came the indifferent answer of the oldest personification.

* * *

The dusty old attic, lightless and forgotten by its owner. Even before the time Iakovos started living there, the attic had never seen a clear purpose. Never had been a guest room, a bedroom, or an office. Just an empty, lonely space underneath the roof of the house.

Its only purpose thus far was to store antiques, old documents and broken items, or just generally anything unwanted in the Cyprus household. Inhabited by darkness, dust and reigned by silence, the attic has started to draw in unwanted company, that being the one of spiders and bugs crawling amongst them.

Iakovos ran a finger across a broken wardrobe, which oddly enough was still sturdy enough to withstand holding tons of old books and manuscripts. It left a trail of clear wood behind it, as thick dust settled upon his finger.

With an irk of his eyebrow, he sighs out. Indeed, it was high time he cleaned the attic, this room forgotten by time.

Hasan behind him, breathed out an exhausted “For Pete’s sake..” and got right into work. Iakovos watched as he opened the windows, letting in some precious sunlight onto the murky room. Hasan rolled his sleeves up to his shoulders, in an almost childish way, and turned around to face Iakovos.

“The room is a mess.” He said simply, no clear emotion behind his voice. “I wonder if there’s any strange item hidden here.”

“Judging by how much trash I have left in here, I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of a cursed mirror being here.” He smiled gently at Hassan, then stood in front of the wardrobe, rolling his sleeves and wearing his sideburn behind his ear.  
“Then, Hasan, how about we do begin.”

It seemed like hours, and hours of hard and exhausting work, under the unexplainably hot room and amount of dust in the air. For once, Iakovos regretted not having done this sooner, just to prevent another sneezing fit from both himself and Hasan, who actually had to stop at some point just to keep sneezing in peace.

The sun set, it was starting to go dark, and the Cypriots were still working hard. Putting books and manuscripts by the correct order back in the shelves, wiping dust off the floor with a mop, or off the furniture with wet towels, or simply taking a very quick lunch break before scrambling to reassemble broken furniture.

Iakovos never believed that Hasan was actually this good at figuring out where pieces had broken off. Every day, he was learning something completely new about this kid. It was sort of frightening, he admitted to himself.  
But yet again, he couldn’t help but feel proud for having such a mature brother.

As Iakovos struggled to keep a shelf from breaking down completely on him, he swore he heard rumbling from the opposite side of the room. Rumbling, as if someone is looking through a huge pile of stuff. Precisely, books.

“Hasan?” He called out, putting down the shelf, having little hope to if it could be fixed.

“What are you doing?”

Hasan dragged himself out of a small pile compiled entirely of books, covered from head to toe with slight specks of dust and trimmings of old paper. He turned around to look at Iakovos, just to point at something with his hand. Something he was holding with the other.  
A cheeky glint shone in his eye.

“I believe I found something cool.”

Iakovos came closer to Hasan, observing the item he was holding.

A velvet red, sort of worn out book. It appeared to be a journal, or even a diary. Glorious golden details adorned the soft looking, but faded hardcover, embedded with fur, and on the middle of it, was written with almost glowing gold letters, a most mysterious word.

**'Basileuousa'.**

"What is that, Hasan?" Iakovos questioned, tilting his head to take a better look upon the word.

"To me, it looks like a diary." Hasan replied, examining the velvet fur covering the book. "I'm more curious about the word on the cover."

"Can I get a closer look?" Iakovos asked, extending his hand as if he was pleading for it.  
Hasan, with no words but also no protest handed the book over to his brother.

Iakovos glared at the unfamiliar word at the cover.  
It taunted him with the mystical ring it held once said.

"Basileuousa," Iakovos read out loud, finding himself more and more drawn to the word. As if the Holy Spirit blessed him with a sudden epiphany, the word started reminding him of something.

Perhaps, something forgotten in the past. Maybe, a landmark of ancient riches, of glory and grandeur of forgotten yore.

Basileuousa, literally meaning ' queen of cities '.  
Iakovos had known only one by that title.  
**The city of Constantinople**.

And then it struck him, like lightning sent by the heavens.  
Basileuousa, the Queen of Cities, modern day Istanbul. The city was once the bastion of the Byzantine Empire. The pride and joy of his brother Hercules, and eternal envy of all.

Saracens, Avars, Persians, Goths, Bulgars and Bulgarians, Rus', Crusaders and Turks had all tried conquering the Diamond of Bosporus. All but two had managed to take it for themselves, in its over a millennium of existing.

Iakovos remembered the times he'd stroll around the city, simply observing the simple folk run about their business. His brother, Heracles, was busying himself with errands of the state on the Palace, and had little time for him.

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air. The sounds of donkeys, pulling over baskets full of fresh fruit, echoing in the air. From the nearby tavern came laughter, clinging of wine cups, and the melodic voice of the bard, his lute speaking of the undying glory of the ancestors.

So lost had Iakovos been in his thoughts, he didn’t notice nor feel Hasan calling out his name or poking his arm in order to gain his attention. Hasan only managed to snap him back to reality when he blew in his eyes, as a last resort to bring him back.

“You’ve been lost for a while.” He said, no particular emotion in his voice.  
Iakovos blinked, in an attempt to ground himself back to the real world.

“I’m sorry. I got lost within my own thoughts.” Came a sincere apology from the older Cypriot.  
Clearing his throat, he focused his gaze back to Hasan, shooting a stray glance to the book.

“Basileuousa is the title of Constantinople, the modern day Istanbul. It used to be the capital of my brother, back in his teenage years.”

“Heracles?” Hasan’s voice broke into a strange mixture of curiosity and sarcasm. “Republic of Greece, Heracles?”

Iakovos ran a hand through the cover of the book. Despite its worn out appearance, touching it felt like a brand-new book rested upon his hand. It even smelled like a new book, fresh on the shelf.

“Yes. My brother used to be the Byzantine Empire, and I used to watch him close in his court. The book appears to be his diary, or something akin to it.”

Hasan’s curiosity got the best of him. Upon hearing this, his eyes widened, a dumbfounded look washed over his childish face.

If any thought about Hercules crossed Hasan’s mind, it would be how utterly pathetic and stupid he looked when arguing with his older brother. He could never imagine the aforementioned man, not only being one of the most powerful nations that crossed Europe, but also being capable of leading it to a good life for over a millennium?

“I have heard stories of the Byzantine Empire. I never got too extensive on his history, however.” Hasan admitted, hands resting behind his back.

Iakovos smiled gently. The urge to resist the right to privacy was far too much on him. He knew that he had no business snooping around Heracles’ most private thoughts and experiences, especially with his nemesis’ relative, Hasan.

Iakovos faintly remembered Heracles as the Byzantine Emperor. The teenage boy was far too busy running his world-spanning empire and taking care of his people, and thus Iakovos barely saw his brother.  
As he grew stronger, Iakovos and Heracles had grown completely apart. Being a superpower, so busy with managing the problems of all the people included in your empire, the needs and desires of kings and paupers alike, keeping allies close yet enemies closer, must have sucked.

Besides, Heracles barely spoke about his own past. Truthfully, at least. Iakovos felt as if he deserved to glimpse onto the glorious past, the truth beneath Heracles’ calm exterior and sleepy, perpetually tired eyes.

“Come closer, Hasan.” The older Cypriot took the younger onto a hug, forcing them both onto the floor, sitting side by side.

Visibly confused, Hasan attempted to protest, but as he sat by Iakovos, he realized there was no point in struggling. He meant no malice by such an action, but Hasan wished he at least _WARNED_ first.

“What are we gonna do?”

Iakovos smiled widely at him. His hands opened the velvet red book gently, as if it was soft, fragile, broken. The cosy smell of old books wafted through the small attic, entrancing the two Cypriots.

Yellowed sheets, painted with ink black scribbles, Middle Greek calligraphy. That’s all the brothers saw, and Iakovos prayed his knowledge of Middle Greek was still there.

He sucked in a large, comforting breath, as he started observing the fonts on the sheets.

“Isn’t it obvious Hasan? We’re reading the diary of my brother.”


	2. Crowning -- Στέψις

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heracles has some thoughts about New Rome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have many notes to do on this one. Constantine the Great was a very influential personality on Roman and Byzantine history alike, however it's hard to write about him.
> 
> Also Julius is Ancient Rome. I wanted him to be a reference to Julius Caesar with his name.

_11 May, 330 AD  
  
Constantinople_

  
  


Heracles tugged on his cloak. forest green eyes scanning the scenery around him. All this time, days, weeks, maybe even months, he couldn’t tell, he had been confined in one of his Imperial Majesty’s ships, travelling to God knows where. It felt so good, finally the day he craved for, the day he’d escape the adrift vassal and set his feet upon solid ground, upon moist soil and grass, or at least, cobblestone roads and marble steps. 

  
But he had to admit, he didn’t know how to exactly feel about his current predicament. He and his companions have been transferred to a most unusual place, a port of a city, completely unlike any others Heracles has been. 

  
The city was so different to Rome, so different to Alexandria, Amorium, all the cities that his step-father had conquered and ruled over. This new city was…. not of his standards. So used was he on the pure grandeur of Rome, the eastern charm of Antioch, the industrious scholars and mathematicians of Alexandria, all of which had captured the young successor’s mind and led it to where he had grown a quite Roman attitude. 

  
Obviously this was of no satisfaction to his mother, Aristomache, who despite her struggles to lead her young son into the teachings of his ancestors, had failed to lead her son away from the glories of Rome. But she herself had fallen victim to these glories. Aristomache had piqued Julius’ interest from his earliest days, in attempts to establish his dominance over the Mediterranean Sea.  
Although Aristomache was conquered easily by the _dashing_ Roman, her sharp mind and wit hadn’t given up on her. She knew exactly how to keep Julius on his toe, and her plans weren’t going to be interrupted because of a simple invader. As Aristomache’s philosophers, scholars, artists and mathematicians started to practice their arts in the constantly growing city of Rome, Julius started showing his interest in such arts, asking Aristomache to teach him her people’s ways.

It worked. Soon she had conquered not only his heart with her beauty, but also his mind with her culture and wit. Now, she could be left in her own devices, _at last,_ to work on her own share of her country, with no annoying Roman men bothering her.

  
But as it seemed, Flavius had taken an interest in young Heracles, much to Aristomache’s worry. Given that Heracles knew nothing of his father, Aristomache found it sweet that Julius took a fatherly role to Heracles (or at least, seemed to), yet worrying that Julius kept introducing the young boy on Roman customs and traditions.

  
Fear settled upon the Greek woman’s heart: What if Heracles forgets who he is? What he represents? His people, their culture, their history, their pain, the blood they shed for their cities? 

To her satisfaction, while Heracles seemed captivated to his core by the splendor and lavishness of the Roman life, he never forgot his roots. When Aristomache returned to her home from a day advising Julius, she would see an asleep Heracles sat upon a chair, his hands clutching a papyrus of a Greek philosopher’s teachings close to his heart.

Aristomache would press her lips gently against his forehead before carrying him to his bed, placing the papyrus by a small table sitting next to his bed.

  
  
  


As of lately, Julius was having troubles.

The years of frequent wars and indulgence had started taking a toll upon his empire.

Barbarians rose, they rebelled, they stole land and riches, undoing in what seemed like minutes, eons of hard work and bloody wars. Demagogues in Rome sought to squeeze every last penny from the suffering people of Rome, poisoning the minds of Emperors and tyrants. 

  
Attempts to set Rome in the right path have been made, again and again. And all resulted in the same.   
  


The Romans decided that the Empire was simply too vast for one man to manage efficiently. They split their Empire in 4 parts, assigning 4 Emperors to each. Through such a system, a man like Constantine had risen, and had taken control. Constantine was incredible, by all nations’ standards. Me before Constantine had seized such recognitions before, Diocletian, the man who restored the Roman Empire. However, Constantine was ambitious enough to reach the levels of recognition that Diocletian possessed.

He had defeated his rivals, established his authority across all parts of the Empire, and had taken bold decisions aimed to recover the Empire.  
His boldest one, admittedly, was transferring the Empire’s capital. Heracles remembered the time where he expressed his doubts to Constantine about such a feat· It was a couple of years ago, the year of 324, and Constantine had already ordered for the city to be built.

Heracles was hesitant about such a decision to be taken. Constantine was bold and determined, quite possibly _audacious,_ if Heracles could give his honest opinion. The Caesar taking such important decisions, without even bothering to inform him or Julius about them? And just let them figure it out on their own?  
  


“Do you think the Roman people will be satisfied with such a rapid decision?”  
  


“I simply do what’s best for the Empire, Heracles.”

  
Heracles did not dare speak after that, and he held his tongue about that subject for a while now. He didn’t even try to ask Julius about that, although it wasn’t hard for Heracles, the successor, to figure out details about the entire procedure.  
Truly, nothing that a drunken mouth will not reveal, especially when it comes from a Roman general, enamoured and in the dead of the night.  
When Aristomache and Julius believed Heracles had long fallen asleep, Heracles hid behind walls and listened carefully, to the noise of the adults’ whispers.

As it seemed, Caesar refused to go back on his decision about the transfer of capitals. Not only was it being constructed rapidly and planned to be, hopefully, impossible to breach, the new capital city was going to signal the rise of a new Empire.

The Eastern Roman Empire, and Constantine desired to stray from Julius as the ruler of the new land. He wanted Heracles, he wanted the son of Ancient Greece, Aristomache and Ancient Sparta, Leonidas, to rule over the new domain.  
  
What could Heracles know about ruling an empire? All he knew was the teachings of Julius, Heracles wasn’t confident enough on his own to rule over a tiny city on the Balkan pensinsula, let alone a terrifyingly large domain of conflicting cultures, the meeting point of East and West.

Heracles decided to face this possibility like how his father would. He’d honor his people’s legacy by facing the new challenge like a true Spartan: With bravery, integrity and wisdom.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


The city of Constantinople, the “New Rome”, as Constantine described it most enthusiastically, wasn’t as glorious as Heracles had imagined. The city was noticeably smaller than the spacious Rome, and less populated. The noble praetors of Rome and the officers were missing, giving Heracles a sense of uncertainty. Constantine seemed thrilled with the city, much to Heracles’ confusion. He wouldn’t stop talking, quite loudly, about his plans for the city’s construction and improvement, his hands always pointing to vague locations underneath the sun and shade alike.

Aristomache listened and nodded alongside him, often pointing to locations on her own, her eyes widening every time Constantine suggested the construction of a Greek-inspired building or the creation of art made by Greek artists. She seemed delighted at least, the joy radiating from his mother’s face reminded him of a small sun on its own.

Heracles, on the contrary, a dark cloud of doubt and fear had settled over his very core. For so long, he had convinced himself he had the capabilities to rule over a domain of his own, he’d just have to follow his father and Julius’ protocols and he’d be regarded as a fine king.  
But as the time for his establishment as the Ruler of Eastern Roman Empire crept closer, Heracles couldn’t help but lament his lack of skill and luck.

How was he supposed to lead the Roman Empire, only with the act of mimicry of his ancestors? Not only Heracles lacked experience and knowledge, but also was young and admittedly, not quite as sharp as Julius or his mother. He’d lead the Eastern Empire onto a rapid decline, he’d fall prey to larger predators of the time, and history would eventually forget about him.  
Best case scenario, History would remember him as a coward, an unintelligent and shameful king who brought the mighty Roman Empire to the mercy of barbarians and invaders.

Heracles spared a glance to his younger brother, Iakovos, who had accompanied him on the journey to New Rome. He and Iakovos had been kept in different chambers during the journey, for reasons only Julius knew, thus the brothers hadn’t had the chance to talk to each other a lot. Now, as they traverse New Rome together, Iakovos had been oddly uninterested in the marvels of the city, his lips sealed, as if he had taken a vow of silence.

Iakovos, immersed onto his thoughts, had indeed been rather silent. He didn’t even notice Heracles’ stare, until Heracles spoke and shattered such immersion.

“It’s been a while, _aderfe_.”

Iakovos smiled at the affectionate wording, breaking the stoic face he had kept the entire time. Iakovos held a special adoration for Heracles on his heart, one that would melt all ice on the planet, had it the ability to manifest physically. It has been just so long, so long without seeing his brother, he craved to merely talk to him.  
  
As if he sensed it, Heracles crept closer to the younger brother and took him in a short lived hug. It has been so long. God, it’s been so long since the brothers felt each other’s warmth, so long since the brothers heard each other’s voice ring through their ears, so long since Heracles last poked Iakovos’ nose in a teasing fashion.

  
The smile was returned, a true smile, a smile that only Iakovos and Aristomache had ever known.

Sunshine.

  
  
  
  
  


“What were you thinking about?” Came Heracles’ question, a question Iakovos found himself rather unable to answer. He had to stop on his tracks and think. Did Iakovos have anything in mind about something in particular? He didn’t know.  
His mind was littered with all sorts of emotions and thoughts; Mainly worry, worry clouding his mind. Not about him or his people, but about his brother.  
  
He knew his brother and his personality, and even though Heracles tried to hide it, there was no running from Iakovos’ piercing gaze. Heracles was completely, utterly terrified at the idea of being a successor to Julius, let alone become the emperor of an entire nation.

“Nothing. Things have just been hectic, that’s all.”

“They have been, truly. Julius is very pushy when it comes to his successor.” Heracles sighed out loud, an exhausted sigh from the depths of the soul.

“At least we’re having a ceremony tonight. You know, for your establishment as the Eastern Roman Empire.” A heartwarming smile spread across Iakovos' face.

“A ceremony? I was not told of that.”

Iakovos had to blink twice at that, his smile falling. How was it possible for Heracles to not know about the ceremony? This is _all_ that Iakovos and Aristomache had been talking about lately, a celebration for the New Emperor, the New Rome. Constantine was nothing less about thrilled about this one too, and made sure everyone on board knew of it.

“You don’t know of the ceremony?”

“No. Mother never told me of a ceremony after the official establishment.”

“Huh, that’s strange. Constantine and Mother were talking about this all the time on the ship.”

Heracles shrugged, “I guess I never really paid attention to what they had to say. I had too much on my head.”

  
Iakovos scratched the back of his neck, pushing his long fringe away from his face. “Well, you know, it’s nothing too special. It’s just going to be a simple _convivium_ , food, music, all the stuff you enjoyed back in Rome. Constantine said he wanted it to have an authentic Roman feel to it.”

“A sympo— uh, convivium, eh?”

“Yes. And Julius would love it if you attended, instead of going to bed.”

  
Heracles groaned audibly at the last remark. He despised symposia, _convivia_ , whatever they were called, perhaps due to his young age. Whether young or not, Heracles was not a fan of gatherings like that; He disliked wine with every fiber of his being, its smell, its taste, the way the attendants would devour the drink mindlessly. The loud talks about abstract subjects bored Heracles to near death. The only enjoyable thing about symposiums was the gentle music by the bard’s lute and his melodic voice.

  
But alas, it’s not like he had any choice on the matter. If he tried to run away after the ceremony, Julius would find him. And the reprimand he’d get from him was simply not worth it. Julius did not hold back when it came to disciplining him.

  
So he’ll just put up with the gathering, as he has done so many times before.

“When is the convivum?” Heracles said absent-mindedly, another sigh of displeasure escaping his throat.

  
“Night time, instantly after the establishment.” Came Iakovos’ answer, who was now busying himself with fixing his cloak’s hood, who had been hanging lifelessly over his head.

  
  
Heracles rolled his eyes, pulling up his hood and quickening his step.  
This was going to be a long night.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“And by the word of mine, Caesar, I declare this day, as the day of the birth of the Eastern Roman Empire. A toast, ladies and gentlemen, to the birth of New Rome.”

The attendants erupted in a roar of cheers and jeers. The musicians carried on their joyful tune as laughter echoed from the depths of the rooms, jokesters were teasing and mocking others.  
Pure noise to Heracles’ ears. He disliked crowds as large and noisy as this, he disliked the smell of alcohol in the air, he disliked the aura the place itself carried. 

Julius was keeping a watchful eye on him during the entire establishment procedure, and Heracles could also feel his mother’s piercing gaze boring on his back. But with the convivum, Aristomache and Julius alike had withdrawn to their own little place on the house, leaving Heracles and Iakovos alone.  
  
Iakovos, much to Heracles’ dismay, was also gone, like the wind out of a bag. The presence of his brother, even if in silence, would offer him a sense of security, or even comfort. Especially in crowds like these, violent, mindless nobles who care only about their own wellbeing and the wine on their goblets--  
  
The thoughts were suffocating him. The longer he stayed on this room, the more Heracles believed his mind was failing him. He had to escape, he had to go somewhere, somewhere quiet. He had to go out of this house. 

Heracles slipped past the drunken men and wild dancers dominating the floors with their exotic dances, unnoticed by Julius and Aristomache. He crossed the hallways of the newly constructed house, lit only by an array of torches, hastily, as if he’s in a hunt, and he was the prey. Even if he were far away, Heracles felt the glares of his parents’ eyes from even beyond the wall. Cold sweat drenched the young boy, a sense of unknown dread washed over him as if he were a sailor of a shipwreck.  
With every step closer to the exit of the house, closer to _freedom_ , all Heracles could think about was the infuriated reprimand of Julius, for he, the _Eastern Roman Empire_ , preferred to run from drunkards and indecencies instead of indulging in them.

He reached the exit in what seemed like forever. Once he felt the cool night breeze collide on his skin, Heracles felt alive. His worries dissolved instantly, the smell of salt and the embrace of the darkness seizing his mind and soul.  
  
  
Heracles admired the sea. His new house, the mansion Constantine built, was as impressive as the one he resided in, in Rome, but in New Rome, it looked… less glamorous than the Roman Palace. And yet, it held its own unique charm, at least for Heracles’ standards. The best charm it had, it stood exactly next to the sea.

  
The sea… An alluring temptress, an untamed mistress. Her song drew Heracles in, her beauty consumed his thoughts, her mere existence held only questions that Heracles’ curious spirit could not answer. But he desired the answer so badly, he needed to know, he’s only human after all!

Truly, Heracles was madly, completely in love with the sea. His childhood, his first battles, his first experiences on what life meant, they were all on sea. He lived to be in love with the sea, to be an emperor of it, in his own words.

In this moonless, starless night, Heracles forgot his duties as a nation, the dark clouds of doubt and skepticism, terror and unrest scattered away, in some hell, never to be seen again. Heracles’ reflection on the clear waters, dim but quite noticeable, wavered with every tiny splash upon the shore. Yet, the splashes couldn’t erase the confident smile that Heracles gave to himself that night.

And the voices of the night, the songs of the sea, owls and predators, they couldn’t drown out the conviction in Heracles’ voice, when he said,

“ **I** am the Eastern Roman Empire.”


	3. Πτωσις -- Fall

_476_

_Constantinople_

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Comfortable silence lingered on the air. The early September heat still reminded Heracles of the past summer, hectic summers. For a newly crowned nation, at least, it had been one of the worst summers in terms of work.

Heracles found little to no time to tend to himself or his growing psyche. Even less, to visit his beloved brother and mother dearest. All these months held was unending work, ranging from creating battle plans to fend off ambitious barbarian kings from all over the world, replenish his lost wealth and cities, and focus on making his people’s lives slightly better, even during the humid, nigh insufferable summers of Constantinople.

Heracles always found himself tangled in the bed, barely being able to move a single finger from exhaustion and strain. His back ached with the responsibility of an entire empire relying on him. His head throbbed with Latin chatter and eloquence, dancing around the cavities of his brain, as if they desired his pain.

But when he didn’t find himself tangled on the bed, his mind strayed, always to the same person, to the same figure. 

_Julius._

He was having problems, according to Heracles’ confidants. When Heracles was finding ways out of a direct conflict with the Huns, to not lose further money, Julius took the initiative and attempted to fight these mounted invaders. As of recently, Heracles heard, Julius pushed them back to their cold steppe. 

But it cost him many things. Many things. Many provinces, much money, and too many men.

Wounds that would never heal. The Huns may have left a long time ago, but they left destruction behind them, even without battling their enemies.

Heracles was a silent observer to the dishonorable fall of his predecessor. He watched, as the great cities fell, to the ravenous hands of northern barbarians. He witnessed the grandest pieces of art, crafted by Aristomache and Julius’s hands themselves, being crushed underneath the straw-haired horde and the merciful fire, charring their relics to ashes.

Heracles, a silent, inactive observer, to his father’s death.

What a heartless person he was, he whispered to himself one night, before his fears put him to sleep.

That night, the sea didn’t sing a lullaby to him. The sea held nothing for Heracles, but judgement.

Guilt was eating him alive. And Heracles did not fight the hideous beast.

Every night, it devoured a bit from his youthful soul, tearing on the heart and sending the mind into a state of arrogant apathy.

The sea will not sing for the guilty.

* * *

  
  
  


To Heracles’ dread, it did not take much time for the tide to change. For the worse.

  
  


A servant ran across the shimmering halls of the mansion, the expression of dread written across his face. His worn out, dirty and blood-soaked clothes told the tale. A great disaster plagued the lands.

Stopping only in front of Heracles and his Emperor, Zeno, the servant dropped to his knees, kissing the ground beneath him with trembling lips. Nails dug themselves into the thighs, and stifled, cowardly screams escaped the man’s throat.

The Emperor’s room, the throne room, with a window larger than the entire Wall of Constantinople. All the Emperors that sat in this throne thoroughly enjoyed the sun and its gentle touch. The large window invited the sun, illuminating the entire room and plunging it to a sea of pleasant warmth.

The throne room was quite minimalistic, for a Roman Emperor’s standards. The Emperors had scattered a few chairs before the large throne, for the Royal Guests, and a smaller, less grand throne stuck next to the Emperor’s throne. This seat was forbidden for anyone to even breathe next to. It was strictly for Heracles.

Heracles, used to the Roman pleasures, always tried to get his Emperors to at least add some treasures in this room. Such as a Persian carpet, or a couple of statues greeting the guests. The Emperors always denied his requests, with the same tone of voice and gait. As if they were blatant copies of each other.

In this room, the messenger bearing dreadful news dropped to his knees.

  
  
  
  


Zeno, caught up in his own world, spared an indifferent glance at the kneeling attendant in front of him. 

He was playing his game, the tabula, as he called it, with a devotion that terrified Heracles to his very core. The man with the crown who Heracles put all his hopes on for his own survival, was playing a child’s game during a crucial time for his nation.  
  


Heracles crossed his arms in the pitiful sight before him. What was the servant even doing? How miserable did he have to be? To bite down on his screams like a child? 

He dared to take the initiative.

“What may the problem be, Agapios?”

Agapios raised his head from the ground, the hollow expression of the dead still engraved onto his naturally pale face. Trembling body gave way to a shaky voice, which whispered a quiet, but impactful fact.

“Julius has fallen.”

Zeno’s stare widened. His palms, full with the game’s blots, froze to a swift stop.

Then, they proceeded in their usual bored rhythm on a dime, the Emperor’s gaze softening back to its usual deadpan.

It was no shock to the Emperor. Julius had been suffering in drowning silence all this time. His wounds bled more than what his body could handle. He was always like this, audacious, enthusiastic and with a boundless craving for battle and women. And this lust became the death of him.  
  


Zeno crossed his arms on his chest, a rough sigh escaping parting lips. Fixing his brilliant headdress, adorned gently on top of his head, he faced the roof, as if it owned the responses to the announcement.  
  


“Woe to the Westerners,” He chided, no hint of emotion coloring his tone. Not like it ever did.

Heracles, the blood having drained from his face, felt his limbs turn to air beneath him. Eyes drowned in awe, as his hands quivered like a fawn, exposed to the wind, swept aside from its mother. 

No words, no sounds crossed his throat. The world was mist to him. His mentor, his only father figure, the man who practically raised him and his mother. Now he left this realm, in what seemed specks of time across the sky.

The only sounds in the air were of the Emperor’s blots colliding against each other, torture to Heracles' ears.

  
  
  
  


Heracles’ feet gained a mind of their own, seizing his body away from the sun-drowned room, to the murky halls, nearing the dungeon. He cared not if there were criminals, or witches, or whatever demonic creature his brother’s mind conjured. 

All he desired was to leave him alone, to his grief.

He sunk to the floor, a brilliant red cape wrapped around his shoulders, like a mother’s embrace. He touched it. 

Silk. Smooth silk slipped between Heracles’ fingertips, softer than anything the young man has touched before. Memories oozed in the touch.

Julius had bought him this cape. It had been a long time ago, way before they declared Heracles successor. 

_He and Julius had visited Tyre on a trip, as Julius described it. Truth is, even Julius had tired of Rome’s antics. He needed a trip. Even in the largest city in the world, you can feel trapped, at times._

_Julius took him and Aristomache to Tyre. As if he was showing off, Julius bought three silk capes, each for everyone._

_This had Heracles colored impressed, the texture of the cape, the bright red color, even its smell, an exciting new discovery for him, that he didn’t dare put it on, even in formal situations. He feared he'd spoil the royal fabric with the dirt of land._

  
  


Heracles touched his face and winced, as if it _burnt_ him. It had dampened in that memory. No way was he crying? No! Unacceptable, he told himself, shaking his face to dry the burning, rogue tears away. The heir to an Empire as successful as Julius’s empire is in no place of sniveling over such trivial matters….

Or was he?  
  


He was. As much as he desired to deny it, Heracles could no longer suppress the tears threatening to spill, nor had he the power to tell his mind to stop his emotions. He would not become a statue of a nation. It’s not in his blood to get emotionless.

The barrier inside of Heracles’ head shattered in a trillion pieces.

Concealing his face with his hands, silken cape still trapped between his fingertips, he drew a deep, shaky breath, before letting a mournful wail that would shake the earth beneath him.

Only one word was he able to choke out, while drowning in his anguish.

“Πατερα…”

The dungeon walls rattled with the low bellow of the child. But they remained silent, solemn, casting their comforting darkness above the twice fatherless child.

The shadow's embrace engulfed Heracles.

  
  


If only that were in Aristomache’s presence. She’d douse in her holy, motherly light, casting his dreads, troubles, all negativity away.

But she, too, has been gone for too long.  
  


The shadows sang for the remorseful. And their song was alluring.

* * *

  
  


The night fell, after what seemed a torturous day of more late-summer heat and humidity. Heracles could not recall if anything exciting happened that day. His mind, glazed with the tears he was too proud to spill and dazed by the heat, refused to acknowledge anything as more than a mere blur.  
  


Perhaps Iakovos came over. And what if he did? Heracles didn’t register it in his head.

He spent this pitiful day dragging himself through the halls, hopping from room to room, as if he were a restless ghost searching for a nest inside the sun-soaked palace.  
  


The palace _he_ built. And by he, Heracles meant Julius.

No, not Julius. He meant father. 

  
  
  
  


And once again, for what seemed like the millionth time this month, Heracles dwelt by the beach. The breeze had grown wilder. Now a strong, cold wind, it carried the salty smell and the addicting song of the sea further beyond than just Heracles’ ears.  
  


Wrapped in his warm red cape, he took a glance at the night sky. A clear night, few clouds to be seen. And these clouds, they were way too insignificant to divert one’s attention from the stars.  
  


The stars gleamed in the sky, tiny helpers in illuminating the Earth, even at the darkest of times. Heracles felt a ghost of a smile creep up to his face. The stars felt oddly comforting. A sanctuary for lost souls, for the men and women who shed tears of joy and anguish alike, the people who search the answers to the universe’s questions, they were.

All these people, they all had the stars for guidance through life.

“The stars are the beginning of everything,” He whispered, expecting no answer from anything.  
  


“And will witness the end of everything,” A feminine, motherly voice echoed from behind, an answer to Heracles’ colorless voice.  
  


Heracles turned around to see his own mother, Aristomache, crouched beneath him. Her hair, wild and untamed, sat to her shoulders. Dark and heavy bags pulled her eyes down, her eyes that once shone with a clever glint.

The death of Julius had a greater impact than Heracles expected.  
  


“Mother,” Heracles’ voice immediately softened, adoration dancing in his soul.   
  


Aristomache, wordlessly, seized him in a tight hug, one that engulfed his entire being upon her arm. Aristomache’s hugs were always like this, tender, but unexpectedly powerful. The woman had a grip stronger than a Spartan’s hold on his spear.

But that’s how Heracles liked his hugs. 

They remained embraced, underneath the starry sky’s deepening, but safe, comforting darkness. This night was not to be feared. The moon watched over all. And her protection was not to be underestimated. Even though far away, she always watches, the Moon leaves none unattended.

  
  


Heracles’ eyes rose to find his mother’s face. Tired and scarred from a lifetime of fighting, struggling, a lifetime filled with nothing but bitter anger and endless suspicion. Being a nation, especially the nation of Ancient Athens, was no laughing matter. Aristomache had seen more agony than what her son’s young mind could even conjure.

And yet, with her eyes closed and a comforting smile drawn in her face, as she relished in the feeling of reuniting with her son, at last, Heracles’ soul came awash with a comforting realization.

Maybe his mother was like the Moon. Tired, exhausted, but always there. And always a warrior. A warrior with no fear or hesitation for her tiny family.  
  


He let himself drift off to her embrace, his mind’s barriers of shame shattering once again. After all, The Moon was watching. The Moon brings safety. The Moon does not judge a man’s tears.

The Moon will not judge Heracles’ tears either.

  
  


* * *

“Julius would be so pissed off if he caught me crying over him.” Came the youthful, yet oddly grown voice of Heracles.  
  


“No, he wouldn’t, Heracles.” Aristomache’s fingers brushed his hair away from his face, swollen red and soaking wet with the tears he shed. How long has been crying? God knows.  
  


“He’d think of me as weak. I need to pull myself together.”  
  


“He would not think about you like that. Julius would sit beside you and refuse to judge you. You know, we are humans too.”  
  


Heracles’ eyes perked up to Aristomache with such words. With all that’s been going on, he has forgotten. He’s human too, distantly. He’s allowed to cry, allowed to mourn.   
  


Heracles felt the fresh wind of the sea hit his face. Lord, the feeling of the sea wind touching his head after an outburst of emotion like this was completely refreshing. Soul mending, in a way.  
  


“How are you feeling now, my star?” Aristomache, the Moon herself, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him near her warmth.

“Much better.” A smile graced his youthful face, still swollen but significantly less flushed than before. 

He leaned his head against his mother’s shoulders, red cape captured between Heracles’ fingers, held like a holy relic against his chest.  
  
  


Embraced by the night, lulled by the wind and his gentle touch, and protected by the Moon and sea, Heracles descended on a deep slumber, to perhaps, meet his fathers, in his dreams.

The dreams he longs to see.


	4. Ad Astra

_535_

_Sicily_

* * *

  
  


Sand crushed underneath Heracles’ sandals, a slight screech escaping with every step he took. But he cared not, not any longer. He stood on the glorious lands of his father, Julius — or well, the lands that used to be his --, and cared more about the wind of nostalgia brushing against his skin, rather than the beach’s sands.  
  


Heracles had grown unnaturally quick, one would say. Now a teenager, his height sprung up to match an imposing Roman Emperor. His hair, dark and curly, grew with him too, and his face had all but remained the same. No longer weak and defenseless, no longer the mere heir to the Roman Empire.

He _was_ the Roman Empire, Eastern or not.  
  


Clad in his heavy armor, but with the brilliant cape hung lazily over his shoulders, dyed crimson, like the blood he shed on the battlefield, Heracles felt as if his skin was on fire. Wearing his full armor on a sunny day was not his smartest idea, nor will it be. His men, on the other hand, aware of the summer heat, had taken off their armor and marched around the camp on their tunics, enjoying their time off and soaking up the Sicilian sun.

A smile graced Heracles’ face. When not at battle, the Eastern Roman soldiers looked so much more relaxed. They were laughing, making crude jokes, expected of soldiers, and some argued with each other. They were human.  
  


Something Heracles could never aspire to be. Even if he attempted his best, they would still know him as the immortal man, the entire personification of the Empire, the man veiled in mystery. Was he sent by God? Was he God himself, or a deity? Did he spring from the Earth, did he descend from the heavens? Was he born of the sea and silence, or was he born from faith and clouds? Questions that surrounded his mere existence, and questions that not even Heracles himself could answer with certainty. 

All these questions were to remind him he’s not human. He hasn’t been human since a single day of his life.  
  


_What does it mean to be human?_

Heracles stepped in his tent with the question reflecting on the bottoms of his soul. Who had asked him that? He removed his armor and cape and set them aside carefully, as if they were crystalline. Left in his tunic and a simple pair of pants, Heracles felt his skin breathe, and his lungs cry out in pleasure, and for one moment, he allowed himself to express it, too.  
  


A relieved groan escaped his lips. Now that the armor’s off, he could finally relax. He wasn’t planning on starting the battles right off, either way. He had to consider his men, his soldiers and fighters. Sent astray in uncertain seas, to be later dragged off underneath the scorching, merciless sun. 

They deserved some rest, too.  
  


Heracles hid his few possessions, lest they be seen by prying eyes and wandering fingers, and left his tent as if he were a wraith. 

The question still lingered in his mind, and he needed a quiet place to think of it to its complete potential. A military camp, filled to the brim with loud soldiers, wild horses and meddlesome advisors, was the last place to sit down and think of philosophical riddles.

He needed to visit the sea. And quickly. He had little time before his generals demanded meetings with him, and if Heracles had to have free time all to himself, well, he’d put it to good use.  
  


As he left his tent, his eyes caught sight of a guard. With steady, heavy steps, Heracles made his presence quite clear to the guard, who, out of respect, bowed his head and attempted to kneel.

“Hera--”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Heracles’ eyes narrowed dangerously, a stern voice escaping his lips. The guard froze in place, his eyes locked in a frightened battle with Heracles’. He ran a hand through dark hair, groomed and glowing with health according to a youth, and sighed. “Be aware that I will take a walk alongside the shore. Should anyone ask of me, tell them I will return soon.”  
  


“As you wish, Heracles.” The guard’s voice struggled to sound confident and steadfast, but Heracles picked up the fear painted on his voice. He had that effect on others, his voice raising or eyes narrowing were always a sign of Heracles losing his patience.

Heracles breathed in and walked away from the nameless guardian, his steps heavy but quick, like a wolf’s. Far too quick for Heracles’ liking. He had intended this walk to be a rather refreshing one, with the salty scent of sea clearing his mind from worries and philosophical questions. His stride betrayed his genuine feelings; Unsteady and cautious, suspicious yet bold.

Much to Heracles’ disappointment, his head didn’t feel any lighter by visiting the shore. Even if the ocean winds blew in his face, cold and unforgiving, pushing his dark hair away from his face, they didn’t push away the question tormenting his mind for about 2 hours now.  
  


_What does it mean to be human?  
  
  
_

It echoed in Heracles’ head like a siren’s song. Taunting him, for this was a question not even humans themselves could answer.

Because being human isn’t just one exclusive experience, one that people agree on.

It is many experiences, of many people, who all react uniquely to them. Displaying all their emotions to the fullest.

“But I feel emotions as well.” Heracles’ thought stagnated at this statement. His mind went blank, unsure of how to continue this thought of him, besides the childish mentality.

  
Heracles’ eyes rose to the sky. The sun was blazing on the top of the world, no cloud to be seen over the far-off horizon, and the skies painted a deep, calming azure. The sea, likewise, azure and crystal clear. A perfect corner to ponder, by the sparkling sea and clear horizons.

  
Heracles smiled, standing tall on the sand, hoping to catch sight of a cloud travelling to the west. The skies, the sea, and the questions of humanity tangled with each other in a Gordian knot within Heracles’ mind, and momentarily, Heracles felt everything blur around him, the colors losing their vibrance, as his philosophy rambles travelled in front of him. Fae playing with him, for sure.  
  
He lost his sense of time, time and space being an abstract concept. Heracles was much too absorbed into his search for a way out of the knot, and as well, clouds in the sky, to hear voices before him.  
  
A rough shake on the shoulder rocked him away from dreamland. Heracles’ gaze hardened, a frown drawn across his lips, for someone gave him a much deserved, but rude awakening from his woken dream.

He turned around harshly, ready to use the venomous wit hidden underneath his tongue.

Belisarius, his most trusted general, stood beneath him, armor and royal purple cape dressing his shoulders, much like Heracles’ when he arrived at the camp. Dark eyes that held the spark of life and exceeding intelligence, and yet, a darkness induced only by war, were present in Belisarius’ face. A war-hardened veteran and military genius, but for Heracles, he was also a trusted confidant.

  
“Heracles,” He spoke, his voice low, typical of his demeanour when not in battle, or when not devising his Empire-saving battle plans. A slight smirk graced his face. “I see you’ve mastered the art of sleeping with your eyes open.”

  
“Could prove useful in one of our campaigns against the Goths, you know.”

Heracles rolled his eyes, a sigh hiding only hidden, boiling annoyance escaped his mouth. Bringing his hand up to his face to rub his eyes, Heracles turned his back on him and spoke.

  
“Your dry humor isn’t appreciated at this time.”

  
“You never appreciate it, Heracles.”

  
  
Belisarius fixed his cape’s hem, and approached Heracles again, with the confidence and fearlessness of a man who has seen everything, and thinks nothing of a potential new threat. “It appears something is tormenting your head, as usual.”

  
“And you seem to be here, bearing important news.” Heracles replied curtly, swiftly changing the subject, his gaze again fixed on the descending horizon. Impatience and curiosity both poked on his chest, breaking his gaze to meet Belisarius’. “May I ask what they are?”

  
“I bring no news, Heracles,” Belisarius said, his arms crossed against his armored chest, dark gaze piercing at Heracles’ back. “I just heard from the guards you went on a suspiciously long walk.”

  
Heracles scratched the back of his neck, refusing to turn around and stare back at his general. Out of stubbornness, out of annoyance, maybe? It didn’t matter to him.  
“I needed to clear my head. Besides,” He stretched his arms above his head, as if he was attempting to reach for the sun itself. “I always appreciate some personal time.”

  
  
“Of course, Heracles,” Belisarius crept closer to the teenage boy, his hand hovering over the back, debating whether to place it upon his shoulder or retract it away from him. “But be aware,” His eyes grew sharp, a stern look that beckoned Heracles to look at him. “You’re a warrior.”  
“Too much personal time will dull your skills.”

  
  
Warrior? Heracles was not the person to begin fights, nor crave for bloodshed. He considered himself a scholar, a philosopher, a historian, a tactician, wielding the pen and his sharp mind as weapons rather than the sharpened blade and the heavy bow. He never pictured himself as a conqueror, bathed in his enemies’ blood as he cut them down mercilessly, over land and few precious resources.  
  
Heracles exhaled sharply with these thoughts. His mother, his people themselves, reminded him daily why the darkness of war was what he avoided. 

He remembers as an infant, his mother, clad in golden armor, graceful as a swan descending, thrusting her spear against Sparta, his father. Multiple times, he had to witness the struggle between his parents.

Spartan sword against Athenian spear, destruction, fire, death. No side would ever back down, regardless of circumstances.  
  
He did not want the Romans to experience such things any longer. These people had suffered too much under such a short period of time, Heracles had no intention of hurting them furthermore.  
Though, if he were to defend his lands, he would show no mercy to no one.

  
  
  
Heracles sharply turned around to face Belisarius, calm determination washed over his usually sleepy green eyes.

  
“Belisarius, I will _not_ fight.”

  
Belisarius’ mouth gaped open at the teenager’s statement. His hand reached to lightly grasp his throat, stroking it as it landed on exposed skin, as he shut his mouth, his jaws tightening.  
With a nervous laugh, Belisarius breathed in.

  
“What did you say, Heracles?”

  
"I said I will not fight myself. Unless it’s a matter of life or death, then you have my permission to force me into fighting. But, I refuse to fight.”

  
  
Belisarius chuckled again, this time a quiet anger washed over his voice.  
  
“So all the training that His Majesty ordered you do… Was it all for vain Heracles?”

  
“Indeed.” Heracles replied, his voice stern and curt. “He wasted his time when attempting to teach me how to fight. It just deterred me further from the actual art of war.”

  
“There is no art of war, Heracles,” Belisarius snapped, his voice growing rougher and rougher with every word uttered. “You’re the Roman Empire, there’s no way you will not fight in the war we started.”

  
“I’ve made my decision, Belisarius,” Heracles’ unbroken serenity simply infuriated Belisarius further. “I will not fight. I’ve seen the effects of war on people, and I will not be another one to soil my soul with them.”

“Damn it all, Heracles. You’ve already killed so many people without even realizing!” Belisarius growled, leaning in closer to the boy, in an attempt to elicit a reaction from him. A gasp, an eye twitch, even a look of surprise was welcome. But to his disappointment, Heracles merely raised his eyebrow, urging him to continue. 

“You realize all the sacrifices your people made for you, right? All the wars, all the bloodshed and endless fighting, we did them for your existence to carry on.”

  
"I know,” said Heracles, voice steady and firm despite Belisarius’ intimidation attempts. “I know, and the fighting ends here. I will no longer take part. You and the rest of your troops do whatever they desire.”

  
“Heracles, I _FOUGHT_ for you the hardest. I did my best in order to keep the Persians from seizing you in Dara, I fought my own clansmen to keep you and the Emperors safe!” To call Belisarius’ voice desperate would be an understatement. His voice drowned in misery called out, a futile attempt to bring Heracles back to reality. 

  
“Remember the Nika Riots?” Belisarius’ hand grabbed Heracles’ shoulders with the force of what seemed to be a thousand men, forcing Heracles’ gaze to stare at his. Desperation and panic had overtaken his soul, and so his eyes, the windows to the soul. “You were injured badly, Heracles. If I and Empress Theodora hadn’t stepped in, you’d be dead right now.”

  
Heracles hung his head low. He knew Belisarius was right, the night of the Riot was one he preferred not to talk about, for it still haunted his dreams at night. A conflict worth writing an epic about raged within his soul: To fight the barbarians, or withdraw to the palace’s halls, praying his inevitable downfall be swift.

He sighed. He accepted his defeat at the hands of a mortal.

Belisarius gave him a gentle smile, patting his shoulders with his rough hands.

“Come now,” He said, voice returning to his normal, imposing yet casual at the same time tone. “The generals have been waiting.”

Heracles nodded, before shooting a last glance at the sea. Still serene, as before, and still clear as fine crystal. If only it could share with him a part of its serenity.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Wait a minute,” Hassan’s fingers, ever so childishly gentle, traced over the paper Iakovos was lifting.  
“What is this?” His finger pointed at what seemed to be a large smudge of ink, scrambled across the entire royal paper like water. “Is this a strange font?”

Iakovos leaned in closer to inspect the smudge. To him, the smudges vaguely resembled letters, if one looked hard enough. Perhaps, if he gave his best shot, he’d figure the letters out, but he didn’t have the patience at the moment. Heracles’ story was getting to him.

He flipped the page. The next page held the same smudges all across the paper. The next one too, and so did the next ones. Iakovos had only one explanation for such a phenomenon.

  
“I think Heracles just scribbled all over the pages while writing these, and if he was at rush, his handwriting would be a mess…”

  
  
“Plus, the ink would spill all over if he truly was in a rush.” Added Hassan, his finger resting on his chin as if he was inspecting something.   
“Does he say anything later on, or is it completely unreadable at this point?” Hassan raised an eyebrow, asking that. He could pretend that he wasn’t interested in Heracles' story at all. Truth is, his curiosity had got the best of him. Besides, listening to Iakovos read Heracles’ diary was much more interesting than listening to Heracles and Sadik argue all night.

  
Iakovos flipped through the diary’s pages in quick succession, his eyes searching for texts that were readable. 20 pages in so far, and they all were in the same mess they were before.

  
“I’ll see if I can find a readable text--” Iakovos cut himself off, his eyes finally catching a clean, readable page, with neat handwriting. Perhaps even neater, compared to the other texts beforehand. “There we go!”

  
Hassan crossed his legs and prepared himself to listen.

* * *

  
  


_610_

_Constantinople_

  
  
  


  
  
  
  


The city was in chaos. 

The Second Rome was not the glorious masterpiece that Constantine and Justinian left behind with their deaths. These men had taken a hamlet of few merchants and farmers and had transformed it into a city of unimaginable grandeur, one that the Romans themselves would envy.

But now, in the year 610, nothing of the grandeur exists. Only illness, blood floating on the waters and the fertile fields, and blood on the throne. For the shadow of the Persian blade was once again hovering above the Roman Empire, in the East, but by the West, another threat loomed above: This of the Avars.  
They, and their merciless subjects threatened the Empire’s being many times, but this time, they were determined to turn their threats to reality.

  
Instability struck the Empire after instability. There seemed to be no steady decision of who should rule the Empire, and such indecisions hurt Heracles more than what it seemed.

  
For he needed a powerful Emperor, to rule alongside him, in these troublesome times of terror and discord. But man’s greed has no end. 

  
An unpopular usurper, Phocas slew emperor Maurice. And, in turn, the son of the Exarch of Africa slew him. Heracles hadn’t bothered learning his name. Too absorbed by his disappointment in his own Emperors, his mind erased memories of Exarchs and nobles.

Heracles sat on his chair in the throne room, lifeless eyes looking outside the room’s windows. It was cloudy and windy, obscuring the sun, the weather matching exactly Heracles’ mood.  
  
Footsteps closed in, but Heracles cared not enough to turn his head. Through the door of the room came a man wrapped in the porphyra of an Emperor, flowing gently behind him. With the corner of his eyes, Heracles recognized him as the new Emperor. He tore his gaze from the windows to take a better look on him.  
  
Tall, good looking and judging by the way he stood, shoulder back and spine straight, very confident. The man carried an air of pride fitting a king, and the cape of the Emperor wrapped neatly around him helped him elevate it. His gaze, curious but steady, eyed Heracles straight to his soul.

  
“How long will you last?” Heracles was tempted to chuckle at the new Emperor, but he preferred to swallow his poison and merely cross his arms across his chest, beckoning him to utter a word.  
  
The man fixed his cape, curious gaze still not breaking. Either he had a lot of audacity, or he simply was confident enough to not fear a teenage boy in tattered purple robes. Perhaps the second one.

The silence was broken by the man’s will.

  
"You must be the infamous Heracles.”

  
Heracles nodded, plunged into his own silence. The man outstretched his arm, decorated with nothing but a measly string on his wrist, his palm closed, as if he attempted to tell Heracles to follow him. The man smiled, a smile full of charisma and regal dedication.

  
"I am the new Emperor, Heraclius.”


End file.
